Diminishing Returns

I’m hunting for a lost and silver stud

beneath the radiator’s rusted weight.

The beam is weak and thick as yellow mud,

a jaundiced eye that’s resigned to its fate.

I hate the way a thing begins to fade,

the slow retreat of voltage in the dark.

I’d rather have the ending sharply made,

a sudden snap, a quick and final spark.

My thumb is grinding on the plastic slide,

but juice is just a ghost inside the lead.

There is no pride in how the current died;

it simply flickered twice and went to bed.